The Unknown Tribute
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: We are told next to nothing about the Male Tribute from District 3 in the 74th Hunger Games. Who was he? What did he do before the Reaping? And what did he make of things once he got to the Capitol? NOTE: Based in part off the book and the movie. Also changes and/or adds numerous details about the Male Tribute from 3, since there are next to no canon details on him to begin with.
1. Chapter 1- The Minesweeper

**Chapter I- The Minesweeper**

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**A/N: I started writing this story around May of 2012. Originally just a few pages, it ended up being a 7-chapter story. Writing this, I drew off the first book and the movie, so this story contains some elements of both. Also, the nameless Male Tribute from District Three has next to no specified background or personal history, so I wrote one that I thought was fitting. It changes some aspects of the story and the character himself, but again, I think it all fits very well.**

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District 3. Will I ever see it again? I've tried to be optimistic about my chances, ever since the Reaping. It's only been maybe two or three weeks, but it feels like another lifetime. You can't really know what that means, that phrase, unless you experience it. It's not even the prospect of dying, of facing life-threatening danger, that truly bothers me. Some of the tributes had a pretty safe life before coming here. A couple of them, trained at special schools for years prior, volunteered at the Reaping instead of getting picked. Naturally nobody took my place. Why? Most everyone was too busy being thankful it wasn't them, and my family was a bit like that too. The head Peacekeeper looked more sorry to see me go than just about anybody. He knew my dad back when they were in the same unit, patrolling the former warzones in the districts and searching for mines and other leftover dangers from the war- including any signs of a new rebellion in the making. Seems like some of the people in District 9 didn't appreciate their work, because old Farris said that the fifty-plus year old mine that got my dad had clearly been placed in the patrol's path. I didn't hate mines then, I don't know. But coming from the older half in a household of eight, I had to find something to do.

So I volunteered as a Youth Peacekeeper, an experimental program the Capitol has been working on the last few years. To take my mind off what happened to dad, and to help bring some money into the house, I threw myself into minesweeping duties. As early as nine I was scurrying between rocks, through ditches and across groves. Probing for all manner of booby-traps but most especially for mines. I came to love digging into the dirt with my fingers, delighting in the moment when my fingertips would touch the mine's cool steel shell. Grown men would keep their distance while I would calmly walk into entire fields of them, calmly digging up and disarming each one as if I was picking up harmless turtles or crayfish. But the only thing that bothered me all those years, about all those times I faced death so calmly and befriended the silent, deadly mine, was my obscurity. My name was on my file, on my signup papers, kept in some distant headquarters building in a Capitol I never dreamed I'd see. But they never called me by it, the Peacekeepers I worked with, risked my life with. I was "kid", then "the kid", then "The Minesweeper".

Apparently there was some game they played ages ago, before Panem. You'd try to sweep a minefield, and the guys in my patrol figured I'd have been really good at the game, much as I was good at the real thing. But at least Farris and his guys, they respected me. They appreciated the help I was to them, getting in and out of tight spaces they never could. But when my name was called at the Reaping, and I froze, experiencing real terror for the first time in my life, nobody immediately looked at me. They all sort of looked around them, hesitantly, as if searching all that hard for the one who'd been picked could mean them taking my place. I stood there, my mind gone blank, into complete and total denial. But everyone else kept looking around. None of them, not one, really knew my name.

Eventually the official up on the platform started getting irritated, seemingly wondering if their boy tribute hadn't escaped somehow this year. But then a heavy hand, tough as iron and as resilient as steel, clamped on my shoulder. I looked up and saw Farris, his face grim. And his eyes? For a moment, for just a moment, when they locked with mine, they looked heartbreakingly sad.

What was he thinking? I don't know for a fact, but I can guess. This is how the Capitol repays the faithful. It's not enough that a family gives up a father after years of faithful service. Now a son's got to go too. But the look passed- as head Peacekeeper, Farris couldn't show sympathy even if he did feel it. It might not have mattered much in my case- as one of the few Youth Peacekeepers who routinely came back alive and unharmed, I found myself the subject of quite a few hateful stares, as mothers, fathers, uncles and siblings all looked and no doubt said to themselves, "Now it's his turn. The Capitol's little Minesweeper, off to the Games. Let's see how lucky he is now." The damn Minesweeper. That's the only name I've got now.

So I walked up there, onto that platform that they only use for things like the Reaping. Shook hands with the girl they picked- I recognized her face from school, but that was all. And then we boarded the train. I must have been the first tribute they found crawling under it at the station, trying to figure out how the hover system worked. I know I was the first because normally, the Peacekeepers let you know you've messed up by showing how very unpleasant it is to be whacked with a stun stick. This time, though, as I was prying the casing off one of the train's hover 'wheels', they just stared at me for a minute. Then the blows came, and they hurt sure enough, but after I shouted "I only wanted to know how it works!" enough times, they left me alone. Then Betee found us, and proved surprisingly scary when angry. Waving his arms and gesturing furiously, he shouted at them, using such words as "insane brutes" in his tirade.

The Peacekeepers didn't like being yelled at by someone not clearly their boss, but even these Capitol guards understood what a new Tribute was going to mean to a past victor. They let me go without further incident, and one of them even lets me go up front for a while and talk to the engineer. Accompanied by Betee, I find the train's driver surprisingly polite and almost eager to answer my questions about the hovertrains the Capitol operates. But as I get ready to leave, I see why- for just a moment the engineer gazes at me as I leave the locomotive, and there's a terrible, unspeakably sad look in his eyes. I realize he's sure I'm going to be dead soon. Maybe he's right.


	2. Chapter 2- The Capitol's Training

**Chapter II- The Capitol's Training**

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The first day of training, I put on my uniform- black, lined with gray and red and a gray number highlighting our district. Beetee keeps up his usual technobabble, but Wiress says next to nothing, seeming content to leave the talking to Beetee. I only ask about land mines, water mines, wall mines. Mines, mines, mines. Trip wires, too, but Beetee's specialty is definitely electricity, and that only has so much relevance to my career with demolitions. I'm fifteen years old and better than men three times my age in the placing, arming, and disarming of mines. What more can Beetee tell me? He may know something about the mines used in the Arena, though, so I listen, and when Beetee takes the opportunity to seize some particularly good looking pieces of toast, I ask about that. It turns out he was able to tell me quite a lot. Mines have gotten very electronic in the last few years, and the mines placed around the pedestals the Tributes stand on are always state-of-the-art.

For half an hour the first morning, I work with one of the trainers, Orsaa, on making a fire. I catch on quickly, she says; I don't bother mentioning that so many days in the field with the Peacekeepers meant knowing how to do something as simple as lighting a fire. But I do get better at it with her help, so it isn't a waste of time. I leave that station before long, though, my eyes scanning the room.

Mines. Your foot puts pressure on the plate, telling the mine to get ready. Then your foot steps off, because if the demolitions man did his job, you won't know you've stepped on anything but dirt. And that's when the mine knows it's time to do what it was built for.

I know all that. It runs through my mind as naturally as oxygen through my lungs. But I see no explosives in the training room, no mines, real or dummy. But my eyes do catch on some dumbbells at the weight training area… the weights attached to the end have a similar shape, at least, to some old-model Capitol M48 mines. The trainer watches me, curious, as I step up and take hold of one of the weights, but instead of lifting it I simply work the attached plates off the end and walk away with them. Back at the fire-starting area, complete with its own patch of authentic dirt, I go prone and begin digging out the earth, crafting two holes just big enough to hide the 'mines' when I cover them up. Cato finds me there as I work. I see his shadow fall over me but pretend not to notice. "Playing with dirt? That won't be enough" he says; he's amused, unimpressed. "Not if you plan on living very long." I stop my covering up of the second 'mine' and look up at him. My brown eyes meet his cold gray ones. My voice, though quiet, is much more sure of itself than I expected. All I say is, "Oh, I can assure you, it will be enough."

I don't go on to say why; Beetee's told me about the mines, modern and electronic, right from our own District 3, that will keep all the Tributes on their platforms for the 60-second countdown. I don't tell Cato, not now, but once I dig all those up no one will be able to touch me. I can just lead my enemies into them and let the mines, those beautiful, beautiful mines, do all the work. Cato laughs. All he sees is the lean, quiet kid with the dark hair, playing in the dirt. But the mocking laughter doesn't touch his eyes. With the other Careers, with Marvel, it does. They see a kid with less muscle, less brute force, and to them that's all there is. But Cato isn't quite that dumb. If anything, he's at least got the smarts of a predator. And prey that doesn't act like prey should- helpless, scared- may not be as easy as it appears. I am scared, but after so many hours out in the minefields, fear and I are old friends. I get a hint of what's going on in Cato's mind: this one knows what he's doing.

The thunderous explosion of a double-deep rebel booby trap, two mines appearing to be just one, picking me up and hurling me thirty feet flashes through my mind. Cato's been training for this for years, in the best schools his district can offer. But _I've_ been in the Peacekeepers, saving the lives of the men in the white armor for years. Letting so many dads go home, like some long-dead rebel kept my dad from doing. Anger pulses through me suddenly, and now Cato _does_ look impressed. The look I now give him, in my eyes alone, sends Marvel back a step. Cato doesn't back away, but he tilts his head to the right a little. I've gone up a notch. "See you in the arena." He says, and he's gone.

The small girl from district 11 comes by a minute later. She doesn't so much walk up to me- I heard Cato as one would an elephant- as she just… appears. One moment she wasn't there, then she was, a small smile on her face and the light of a brilliant mind sparkling in her eyes. But she's not mean. Nothing about her says mean. So when she asks what I'm doing, I say one word and one word only. More than I told Cato, more than I'll tell anyone. "Mines."

The girl from 11 doesn't say anything, and interestingly she doesn't even seem worried. She looks at me, thinking, and then darts away and is gone again.

Throughout our three days of training I speak very little. I watch, I listen, I learn. I visit every training area there is, and practice 'mine deployment' in every kind of terrain they offer. The plot of fake trees, the tall grass- I must be prepared to use mines at any one. Short swords and daggers are attractive when I practice with them, but I'd rather not have anyone get that close to begin with. I focus instead on the spear.

I catch sight of the pair from District 12 from time to time- the girl looks tough, tougher than most. They have the reputation for that, sure enough- not flashy and with no money for the special academies of 1 and 2, but tough. And that will count more in the Games than good looks. The boy, on the other hand- I don't think he'll last long. All I'd have to do is get him running- towards or away from me, doesn't matter- and have a mine in his path. He'll never have the sense to think, to slow down and wonder if something's up. In just an instant he could lose a leg out there in the arena; down and screaming, he won't have to wait long for death if that's what happens. Or maybe he'll just set a foot on that pressure plate, lift it up again, and be gone before he even knows it. Mines are funny like that. Sure, you make the choice to plant and arm them. We bring them into the world to do nothing but destroy, and even though it's a fate they can never escape, it's the mines, in the end, that decide how they go out. And who goes with them.

Watching the boy from 12, I almost want to cry, I feel so bad for him. He's taller and stronger than me, sure. But he's nothing next to Cato, and I could turn _him_ into spaghetti given two mines and a pointed stick. The boy from 12 seems like a nice enough guy- seems- but the Games are cold and heartless. Nice guys die fast in such a place. They die or get mean. Like me.


	3. Chapter 3- Preparation-A Soldier Reports

**Chapter III- Preparation; A Soldier Reports**

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Betee is with me every day, it seems- Wiress mostly focuses on the girl from my district. I've never met her before the Reaping, and we speak little. I guess the knowledge that even if we both live, one of us will have to kill the other weighs on our minds. You don't want to risk getting attached to someone who not only will likely be dead soon, but may soon be dead because you killed them. But Betee, I note with increasing gratitude, is plenty interested in getting to know me, and tries his utmost to get me ready for the live interview with Caesar Flickerman. I may be cool and calm enough when left alone, and I'm cool as ice in a minefield… but I know nothing about impressing a career TV personality in front of the entire country.

My hands visibly shake as I put on the suit he obtained for me- it has a white coat and pants, with a black tie and gleaming black shoes. The cuffs are ringed with five bands of gold, and the breast pocket is emblazoned with the emblem of District 3. Betee chatters about the suit, and what it will mean to the public: "White is signature color of the Peacekeepers. You served, won three medals- a hero. Five members of your family fell in the Peacekeepers, three in the war and two since." So that's what the gold bands are for. I try to argue with Betee when he tells me to present myself as a hero, from a long line of heroes. This time Wiress steps in, snapping at me, "How many of these Tributes have what you do- an image of military service? You've been looking out for your family for years. You want to represent them well, and you've seen real danger while even the Careers have been going to school all these years. You've been given an image. Stop being so damn modest and just use it." I shut up. She's right.

When Caesar calls my name, my heart stops. My blood seems to freeze in my veins. But my feet snap to and I march smartly out onto the stage, using just the same measured step that my father's unit did during drill. I also made an alteration to the suit, a single change of my own- my three medals are lined up in a row on the left side, just above 3's symbol. My idea for its message was simple- glory to District 3. The crowd's roar is deafening- what exactly makes these Capitol people so wild for a bunch of kids who they know are gonna die soon is beyond me. But then I remember Wiress and Betee telling me about a time long, long ago, when crowds in a far-off land would cheer for people they knew would soon be eaten by lions. The thought is not encouraging, and I try to banish it from my mind. But it won't go.

Caesar waves me over, though, like a proud uncle welcoming his nephew in for a visit. Eventually Caesar quiets the crowd, and looks over from the armchair next to mine. I glance behind me briefly, and see myself on one of the monitors. The two discs and one cross hanging from the colored pattern of ribbons gleam like mirrors. I have to admit, Betee did his job pretty well. I look good. Caesar's voice brings me back, though. "Checking for the enemy?" he says, and I look back at him, surprised. Seeing he has my attention, Caesar goes on, "There's no rebels here." The crowd laughs, and I say, a little more sharply than I meant to, "How did you know about that?" But Caesar isn't bothered a bit. He just says with a slight smile, "Youth Peacekeepers' service records are kept in the Capitol, after all." The crowd laughs. "And with that in mind, I know what you got your medals for. So you don't have to say anything about that if you don't want to. But I think our viewers," he looks out at the crowd, "are all very curious." The crowd's enthusiastic chatter says he's right.

So Caesar goes on, "So I'll ask you one." I nod, doing my best to appear calm and confident. I wonder if I'm succeeding. "When you were clearing that hill in District 4, and the mine you set off turned out to be a double charge… how did it feel?" I stare at Caesar, at a loss for words. How did it feel? I was picked up and thrown thirty feet like a rag doll! Had my sprint away been a little slower, had the charge gone off few seconds quicker, they'd have had to search for my remains. That is, search with gloves and a couple of black trash bags. How was I supposed to tell anyone here in the Capitol, people who had never risked a thing in their lives, what that was like?

Perhaps Caesar senses this. He's a smart man; never misses a thing, not on this show. So he changes his approach, his tone becoming apologetic. "I know that must be such a difficult question." I nod again, and I hear myself say, "Some things you just can't describe. You have to see them yourself." The audience agrees, yes, they do. Caesar tries again, "What I mean to say is, how can you best describe it? What made you go up that hill at all? Is it true you volunteered?" I answer, "I volunteered for the Youth Peacekeepers, and I took point every time we swept for traps. Demolitions was my specialty." Caesar nods thoughtfully, and looks at me to go on.

I feel like there's a greasy lump in my throat, and tears threaten to fight their way out. I clear my throat and say three sentences I'll always know I meant, even if all the rest were bullshit.

"It was like it always was out there; peace or war, demolitions has a job to do. I just wanted to come home alive. I wanted to get the mine that got my dad."

At this I must appear visibly moved, for the crowd murmurs in sympathy and Caesar sets a hand on my arm, the very picture of sympathy. "I think we are all very moved- indeed, I daresay all of Panem is moved- by the sacrifices families like yours in 3 make, sending so many loved ones to the ranks of the Peacekeepers, protecting all of us." Again, the crowd murmurs assent. Caesar says, "If your father could have been there when you won your Keeper's Cross, how do you think he'd have felt?"

I hold my head high and say, "He'd have been proud of me. And he would be now, too."

Caesar nods again, appearing impressed at my sudden display of confidence. He asks, "Now, you come from a long line of Peacekeepers, and three of your family died fighting for the Capitol in the war. But no one from your family has fought in the games before. This leads us to my last question. How do you feel about going into the games? Do you have a particular plan, or talent?"

I answer right away, appearing much more confident than I feel. But that's good- I don't want to die like the boy from 12 is all but set to do. The Careers are going to eat him alive. I look at Caesar and answer as confidently as I can- and I do surprisingly well. "I've got a few tricks up my sleeve, things they teach us in District 3 and in the Peacekeepers." Then I smile nastily. "If those Careers think they can win by charging all over the arena like beasts, I'll win for sure, Caesar. One wrong step…" The audience talks excitedly; some of them have caught the meaning of my words. Caesar has too, from the expression on his face. Maybe he's also heard of the mines that surround the circular platforms the Tributes stand on, and put two and two together.

His last words to me are also to the audience, "Then we'll all expect some surprises from you in the arena, I think. Ladies and gentlemen, the Boy Peacekeeper, the winner of the Keeper's Cross!"

As I rise to my feet and bow to the audience, the cheering erupts once more. Feeling less nervous than I did going out- against almost certain death, I guess stage fright really is trivial- I stride offstage, medals clinking faintly against my chest. As I come back down the stairs and pass the line of Tributes still waiting to go, I briefly lock eyes with the girl from 12, who looks quite stunning in that red dress her stylist got her. She looks scared out of her wits. But for a moment, just a moment, I feel like I am seeing past her fear and into that inner toughness that lies beneath. And in that moment, a stern, incontrovertible voice tells me: forget Cato. She's the one to watch.

I'm still unimpressed by the boy, though, aimlessly fumbling with some button on his black suit with its red trimmings. Unless I've been missing something- something he's doing a damn good job of hiding- the boy from District 12 is dead meat. No, I'll just be watching the girl. In fact, if it comes down to a fight between her and Cato… I think most of the Tributes- and really, most of Panem- haven't noticed yet, but the more I think about it the more certain I am. She doesn't look like she plans on losing. The difference between her and Cato is that Cato _thinks_ he's sure. The girl from 12 _knows_ it.

By the end of the night, as I try and fail, over and over, to get some kind of peace or sleep, I realise… my mind is already made up. I may make it out, I may not. But I'm going to go into this with everything I have. Cato and his sword be damned, and the same with the District 12 boy and his stupid flour bags! I was almost killed disarming mines their dumb ancestors helped put in the ground in the first place. If I'm going, I'm not going out of this without taking somebody down with me. Any Tribute that plans on killing me… they'd better be ready to earn it.


	4. Chapter 4- A Day in Battle

**Chapter IV- A Day in Battle**

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Now I'm in the arena, standing right at the center of the circular platform, my heart thudding as the countdown timer goes through that 60 seconds. I look left, then right, scanning the faces- and stances- of my opponents. When someone realizes they're in a minefield, they usually do one of two things. Panic, and run blindly to an all but certain death, or keep their heads, try to find a way out. As I look around me I realize the arena isn't so different from that. I continue looking about me, eying the gear, weapons, and packs scattered around the mouth of the big, steel, horn-shaped Cornucopia.

My heart hammers away in my chest, and my body is humming with adrenaline as I tense myself for the run.

20, 19, 18… I look down, around me. The sensors can't be seen, but they're there. One step off the platform, one second early, and the sensors alert the mines- I can see them circling me, little bumps in the ground the others won't even notice- and blow me to bits so small the animals won't find them. My fate would be left to the ants.

11, 10, 9… now my heart threatens to explode in my chest. The voice of fear, the voice of panic, is not so quiet now. I realize I've been lying to myself all this time. There's a very, very good chance I'm not ready for this at all.

3, 2, 1… time to find out. The horn blows, and the bloodbath starts. I sprint like a boy possessed across the grassy field and straight towards the backpacks scattered around the Cornucopia's entrance.

Which one do I take? Which one has life-saving gear and which one's full of rubbish? Impossible to tell right now. I snatch the one on the left, grab a spear and bayonet- I recognize it from the Peacekeeper's service rifles- and turn to run. I see the boy from 8 cut down before my eyes- Cato already has a sword, and has just made good on his promise to District 8's male tribute. One swift slash- the spray of blood is stunningly bright in the midday sun. The girl from 2, Clove, already has throwing knives- she chucks one at the girl from 12 as she runs, making for the treeline. I quickly decide not to take my chances running back out the way I came. I hear my dad's voice, stern and calm as it always was: "Deception is only dishonorable off the battlefield, in personal affairs. If you can't fight, and you can't get away right now, try something else. You're only cornered if you let yourself be cornered."

So I run to the side of the Cornucopia, and make a run from there. I take no time to pause, just sprint out across the grass, my mind screaming now in blind panic- they'll see you, they'll kill you, you'll get a knife in your back- but my legs keep going, and so I stay alive. Every second counts like an hour, and while I learn later that the bloodbath at the Cornucopia lasted not even two minutes, it killed off nearly half the Tributes. My female counterpart never had a chance. I saw her take a knife in the back- Clove's throws were faster than hummingbirds in flight. But as I run for the treeline, I'm not thinking about any of that. All I can think of is get away and stay alive.

I've just broken through into the trees, starting to think I've reached some measure of safety, I'm still throwing frantic glances back over my shoulder- the Careers have taken control of the Cornucopia, to the surprise of none- when I crash into something and fall, my spear, backpack, and bayonet going down with me. In a second I realize it's the boy from District 4; he apparently decided to get out as well. Despite being counted as one of the Careers, evidently he didn't figure his chances for an alliance with them amounted to much. I notice right away he has no weapon in hand- we each dropped ours when we so gracelessly smacked into each other.

He leaps for my spear- I leap for my knife. The two of us crash together again, struggling fiercely hand-to-hand. I'm stronger than he is, though, despite the both of us being barely stronger than Rue in a fight with Cato. I feint left and close in hard on his right when he falls for it, sending an uppercut into his jaw and kicking him hard in the chest. He goes down, hard, with a grunt of distinct pain. Before he can get up, before he can even try to get away, I suddenly am seized with an aggressive spirit I never even knew I had. With a yell- no words, just an inarticulate scream of aggression- I didn't even know I could make, I snatch up the bayonet, pin him down with one arm, and raise the other high and plunge the blade down into the boy's chest.

His eyes go wide; a sharp, pained cry escapes his throat. Then he burps, and blood spills down his chin. I keep him pinned while the knife does its work. In just a few seconds, the boy from District 4 dies. Panting, I suddenly want to scream. Out of rage, panic, triumph? Perhaps all of them. I don't know. But the cannon booms, again and again, as the din of battle subsides in the clearing and the number of casualties becomes known. Even though we all heard about the deathtrap the Cornucopia is beforehand, the reality of it is shocking. Almost half of us are already dead. Even as I think it the idea becomes ludicrous. Us? Who am I kidding? There is only me. I'm alone.

In the seconds that follow the cannon's final boom, I return to my senses, become aware again of the world around me, in time to hear the Careers talking. My blood freezes when I hear them coming this way. Seems like they kept better track of escaping combatants than I expected. Play dead. I have to play dead. The boy from District 4 left a healthy supply of blood behind. His chest is pooled with it, as a matter of fact. There's little time- in fact, there's none at all. I don't try to run- nothing attracts the human eye faster than sudden movement. I can't fight them- alone one of the Careers is dangerous. Together four of them, for me at least, are unbeatable. So I take a good-sized rock, dip it in the boy from District 4's blood, and smack myself in the forehead with it. I then collapse to the ground, face down, not two feet from the other boy. The rock falls to the ground between us. Footsteps. I slow my breathing as much as possible, to the point of it being unnoticeable unless one is up close. My hope is the Careers won't bother to check for a pulse.

The footsteps stop just a few feet away. Above me, voices. Clove's cold laugh; "Ha! The two little guys killed each other." Marvel's laugh joins her. "Maybe." But Cato is the one in charge. This I know the instant he speaks. "Hold on. I want to check something." A shoe prods against my ribs. Then it goes under my stomach, and I'm rolled over on my back. I freeze. Even the slightest rise or fall of my chest could be noticeable now. When I'm rolled over, I go like a rag doll, and my eyes, wide and staring, are as glazed with death as I can make them. I hope it's enough. Cato leans down above me, a long sword in his hand. I notice there is blood on it.

He says, "Well, well. Playing with your stupid dirt wasn't enough after all, was it, Three?"

Clove speaks now. "Cato, he's dead. Let's stop wasting time with this." Cato looks at me again, a flicker of- doubt?- crossing his eyes. But in the end he buys my act; Cato turns and walks back into the clearing, followed by the other Careers. As he leaves, I hear Clove ask, "What about that gear they had? And the weapons?" Cato's voice is so casual I can almost see him shrug. "So what? We've got all the gear we need. Those two aren't going anywhere."

It takes surprisingly little time for the Careers to leave; about an hour of looking around satisfies them they do indeed have all they need. They then make the sound strategic decision of leaving the entire thing undefended, heading off into the woods so as to "not miss out on the fun" in Cato's words. After another half hour of continuing to play dead, I decide they really have left. I get up and grab my backpack, the spear, and the bag the boy from District 4 had with him. I get a little sick when I look at him- his pale, freckled face is not looking any better. I head into the clearing, spear in hand- I leave the knife in District 4's chest. Once out in the clearing, I head for the Cornucopia's entrance, and spend a few minutes looking around. Soon, I'm heading back into the open, grassy field, a collapsible shovel in one hand and a smile on my face. I hear birds singing nearby, the sun is shining down on my face, and I'm about to dig up and 'repurpose' some of the Capitol's landmines- an act that will at last make me valuable to the Careers, and buy me time. Time which could very well save my life. After an hour of steady work, half the mines are dug up and the holes refilled as neatly as I can do it. After another hour they're all replanted and rearmed; about twelve in all. The rest I keep disarmed, hidden in a hole I dug then filled in just behind the narrow end of the Cornocupia's structure.

I then plant six in front of the entrance to the Cornucopia; the Careers moved everything that was scattered about inside, and there is no side entrance. With the six mines reactivated just ahead of me, I sit down at the Cornucopia's entrance and take my Keeper's Cross out of my pocket. It's the bronze cross hanging from the crimson and white ribbon that I always like looking at- the cross is made from metal mined in my district. As I look at the cross, I turn it over and smile a little- the Chief Peacekeeper, at least, bothered to have my name stamped on the reverse side, along with the date on which the act of heroism occurred. I find myself surprisingly calm as I wait for the Careers to come back, as I inevitably know they will. After all, there's no reason to worry. Cato won't have any choice, really, once he gets back. He'll work with me… if dying of hunger isn't part of his plan. Dying of hunger in the Hunger Games, and at the hands of the skinniest kid soldier in the arena, no less. The irony of the situation Cato will be facing when he returns makes me laugh a little. It's gonna take all three of his brain cells to figure this one out. Maybe if he borrows all of Marvel's he'll have four.

I withdraw inside the Cornucopia for the night; odds are, the Careers will be having too much fun, and everyone else will be too afraid- or too dead- to come back here until tomorrow. The night is cooler than I expected; the light jacket I managed to get isn't entirely enough. And I can't go lighting a fire; no way. Anyone sees that, they'd know somebody had gotten back here and was settling in. So I spent the night inside the Cornucopia, safe in the knowledge that anyone foolish enough to try making their way back here in the dark will die before they know it- and that the sound of the explosion will wake me up in time to deal with any friends they brought with them.

A boom reverberates through the woods and clearing late at night, long after dark has fallen- I sit up, throwing off the blanket I managed to dig out of one of the crates. I grab my spear and check the bayonet at my belt, going prone and crawling quickly outside. I look around in a panic. What happened? Who bought it? There's no thrown up dirt, no one-legged Tribute down and screaming- or pieces raining down of what's left. Nothing.

Then I realise. Thinking about it, I notice the explosion of a mine, especially this close, would have shaken a person's soul, nevermind their body and nerves. I wouldn't have just heard it if one had one off- I'd have felt it.

No. As the adrenaline rush of the moment dies down, I head back inside the shelter, grimly aware of the truth.

Somebody else bought it today. Some sad, luckless soul lost everything out there in the woods, in the dark. Briefly, I wonder who it was. I wonder if he- or she- died alone. Odds are they did, or at least their friend was smarter, otherwise there'd have been two booms of the cannon. The thoughts run through my mind again- who made it today? Who didn't? Who was the latest to join the fallen for the 74th Hunger Games? But before long, my questions are answered.

I come outside one more time that night at the sound of the Panem anthem- I doubt anybody sees me, and I'm not even in uniform, but my feet instinctively snap to attention, my whole form straightening on its own. The seal of the Capitol appears, and below it, hovering in the sky, large white-gray letters: THE FALLEN. I look and watch, feeling nothing in particular as my eyes review the ranks of the dead.

The girl from Three- her death saddens me somewhat, but comes as no surprise. It wasn't likely either of us was going to make it through Day One- the fact that even one of us did is an achievement. It bothers me, when I go to sleep a little while later, that the girl from my own district is easy to picture dead. I can't remember her voice, anything about her besides her face- I can't even recall her name.

The boy from Four- my heart skips a beat. He's not dead by the hand of some random Tribute I never saw or knew. He didn't fall off a cliff or die in a rockslide. No- this boy, the one most like me in build and demeanor, is dead for only one reason: I killed him. But this is war- in war even people we have nothing against must die. He'd have killed me if I hadn't killed him; that's just how it is. Pushing his face aside as the roll goes on, I figure I'll still have no problems getting to sleep tonight. And I'm nearly right, too. Almost.

The boy from 5 is gone, too. I never really knew or spoke to him; he was yet another foolish Tribute who threw away his chance at life by spending too much time in the bloodbath, too close to the Careers. He could have done better than this.

The girl from District 5 soon joins her partner. They're both gone, then. Then comes the girl from 7, the boy from 8, the girl from 9- the list ends with her, a total of thirteen gone in the first day if my count was right. Another of my questions is answered as the Capitol seal flickers and vanishes into the dark, along with the face of the girl from 9. She was the last to go today, and instantly I can guess her fate. Suddenly, I'm sure enough it's startling. I know she died out there in the woods, afraid and alone. Small and inconsequential in a hand-to-hand fight, she had no ability- like service in the PK's and years of experience handling land mines- to make up for her small size. And from what I saw of her in the training rooms, she had no idea what she was doing. None. As I lie back down on my makeshift bed, I find myself picturing what likely happened to her.

She was probably lighting a fire- the very thing they told us not to do. Not out of a daredevil flaunting of the trainers' advice, but because… what else was there to do? She was probably cold, alone- and very, very afraid. Miles from home and surrounded by people ready, even eager, to kill her, she probably lit a fire just to have something to keep her warm against so much cold. That mistake cost her everything.

As I drop off into a sleep brought on not by a lack of conscience- my dad told me once you never forget the face of the first person you kill, and I have no delusions about that- but by sheer exhaustion, I tell myself one thing. One phrase, over and over in my mind, until I'm even hearing it in my sleep.

I picture the face of the girl from District 9, the boy from District 4, and say to myself:

I will not be like them. I will not _die_ like them.


	5. Chapter 5- A Better Plan

**Chapter V- A Better Plan**

* * *

I wake up sometime before dawn- my dad would always wake me up around then after I turned twelve, telling me dawn was when the Frogs and Natives would attack. Was it Frogs? I can't remember. Some country, far away. And the expression is centuries old anyway. Neither of them probably exist anymore; a fate I don't want to share.

Stepping outside, I pull on some gray field pants the Peacekeeper's helpfully packed in one of the crates. Between that and the green-gray field jacket, I'm reasonably warm, not weighed down by any of it, and have no bright clothing to send off visual signals. I smile a little as I check the mined perimeter while the sun comes up. Yep. I'm doing okay.

A shout half an hour later, while I'm chowing down on a small bag of reddish-blue berries for breakfast. My head snaps up; my hands throw down the bag and I leap for my spear, throwing myself flat on the wet grass to scan their approach. I know the voice immediately, know for certain who's come back. It figures; I'd expected this. It's Cato, and naturally he's not alone.'

As they come closer, I see the Careers arguing with each other. Cato is telling them see, I told you he wasn't dead, and Clove is snapping back oh, sure, you thought he was just as dead as the rest of us! And so on and so forth. I become a little bored with their bickering, so as they close within ten feet of the mines encircling the Cornucopia, I shout to them, "Maybe you should shut up!"

It works. They all stop, looking startled. Cato proves again he's at least not the dumbest by recovering from his surprise faster. Working a sly smile onto his face, he calls, "Still playing in the dirt, Three?"

"Or do you miss your _friend_?"

That's Clove. From the cold, taunting sound of her voice, she probably killed her too.

I choose to ignore Clove and speak only to Cato. He's the boss, anyway- the other three Careers; Marvel, Clove, Glimmer- they'll all do whatever he tells them to do.

"I'd stay _right there_, Cato- unless you don't like one of your legs too much!"

Murmurs, quiet, furious arguments between them. They're trying to figure out what I mean. Finally, Cato seems to give up and says, "What's up, Three? Got some mines out there for us?"

Briefly, I'm startled. I hadn't expected Cato to be so quick on the uptake. But I was right- he may lack brains sometimes, but he's a brilliant predator, and hawks know a thing or two about sensing traps set by sparrows.

The Careers close the distance just as much as they dare; even Clove's eyes widen in fear when she notices the small lumps in the ground ahead of her. The grass is tall enough, though, that not all of them can be spotted from where they are. Cato, still looking both amused and surprised to find me still alive, changes his approach. "How about making a deal?" he calls.

I decide there's little point in trying to hide- they more or less know where I am anyway. I stand up, clutching the spear with one hand. I say, "What kind of a deal?"

Cato grins a little. Now he's getting somewhere. "A _deal_, deal! You guard our shit with your mines, we don't off you. Simple as that."

Behind Cato's smile is a look of predatory cunning. He knows- and I know- that such an arrangement will only last as long as it benefits one of us. Even if all five of us- am I really already thinking that- make it to the end, even if we're the only ones left, every one of us knows that when we reach that point, the alliance will fail. We'll turn on each other. And me, the soldier-boy with the landmines? I'll be the first to go. If only because now I've shown the Careers up. I've challenged them as an equal. And their super-competitive, win-win-win spirit must hate that.

Finally I respond, "Get in file behind Cato. Walk four feet straight, four feet left, four feet right, in a Z. That'll get you up to me." Because, you know, that's just what I want. To be closer to Cato.

It takes the Careers a few minutes to figure it out, and I get ready to dive in a hurry at a few moments, expecting one of them to bugger it up. But they don't, and Cato towers over me when he gets there. He's smiling again, though. For whatever it's worth- I'm thinking not much- Cato's got some respect for me now. I've impressed him. And I've proved I can be useful.

The Careers set to work gathering supplies for the day- I quickly notice they only take enough for one day at a time. Those idiots! What are they _thinking_? What happens if they get cut off from the clearing; what if they have to spend two days out there in the wilderness, or three? Have they even _considered_ that?

This display of arrogance, this failure of logic, soon pales in comparison to the next. Guided again through the mines, Cato directs the Careers to relocate nearly every crate, backpack, and piece of food or gear to an open space in the field, about thirty or forty feet away from the Cornucopia's entrance. Then he tells me to relocate the mines.

I try to argue. Pointing at the places Cato has told me he wants the mines, I say, "They're too close! Any one of them goes off, we'll lose all the gear!"

Glimmer just laughs; the kid from 3 is getting afraid again. But I insist. "With this spacing, any one of them goes off, it'll set off the rest!"

Cato won't listen, though. He gets up in my face, real close, halfway to shouting. "Listen," he says, "With all the gear in one spot, mines all around real close together, and YOU"- he jabs me in the chest with a finger- "standing watch, nothing's _gonna_ go wrong. And if any of the mines _do_ go off, there won't be enough of you left to find."

Finally I give up. Hell with it. If that's what the brilliant leader of the Careers wants, fine. Part of me hopes something _does_ go wrong… so Cato and his friends, deprived of their entire food supply, get to live out every agonizing day of hunger, wishing they'd learned from their mistake before they made it.

The first day they head out, though, the Careers apparently decide to stay overnight, out there somewhere in the woods. Early the next morning, though, something apparently goes right- or wrong- for them. The cannon booms in the distance. When Cato comes back, he has only Marvel and Clove still with him. Their faces are grim, and their hands and faces are scarred from Tracker-Jacker stings. I know- the Capitol gives Peacekeepers a little training in dealing with their stings, in case any loyal fighters of Panem should be injured by one of the Capitol's most vicious weapons.

The remaining Careers spend several hours applying lotions and medicines to their wounds. Little is said between them. I don't ask what happened to Glimmer, and part of me doesn't want to know.

Soon enough, though, the Careers head out again, and life in the arena becomes- of all things- boring.

My expectation that few, if any, would dare return to the Cornucopia while the Careers controlled it was right- occasionally I see something in the woods, hear something in the trees, but most of the time it's a bird or animal, and in any case they never come close. Each day Cato and his friends return for more food. Each day I give them what they need, then stand watch until nightfall. My doubts about Cato's logic never go away, though, so I choose to hide some food and supplies in the far end of the Cornucopia's interior. Way in the back of the shelter with little else inside but empty crates, the food I steal is never noticed. Three days pass; now and then I hear shouts, the crashing of leaves or trees in the distance. Once I see a huge column of smoke, too wide to be a campfire. It's accompanied by the sound of falling trees, and goes on for about ten or fifteen minutes. Forest fire, I figure. Probably started by the Game-makers.

I continue my watch over the supplies; for right now, showing the Careers good faith matters. It won't be enough forever, though, so I keep hiding food here and there. Gradually, I'm getting ready to bug out. And when I do, I decide to re-plant every one of the mines, and use the ones around the stack of supplies to blow it up. Let Cato see _that_ when he comes back.

About four or five days in, Cato and his buddies decide to spend the night at the clearing. We take some materials and gear and build a makeshift set of tents about twenty feet from the supply pile, also digging out and placing stones around a fire-pit. The morning of what I estimate to be Day Five, we're all sitting around the campfire, eating whatever got rationed out to pass for breakfast that morning. That part of this arrangement surprises me- as the resident 'smart kid', I seem to get handed every task that requires real logic or thinking, unless of course Cato decides it's his job to make a decision, prove he's in charge. I'm the one that digs food out of the crates every morning and decides how much to use for breakfast that day. Their naivete in assuming I will always work things out for them is laughable- if I slipped some Nightlock berries in with their blueberries, they'd all die together and never know. I start getting an idea for tomorrow morning- if I can just go out and find some Nightlock today- when Cato gets up, pointing excitedly in the distance.


	6. Chapter 6- The Smoke in the Distance

**Chapter VI- The Smoke in the Distance**

* * *

"Guys, guys, look!" Cato gets up and gestures towards the rising plume of grey smoke. "Come on, come on- _look_!" he says again. The other Careers get up and look as well. I turn and look also, but do not share in their excitement. Anyone still alive after these many days in the arena cannot be as naïve as the girl from District 9. I get a feeling that, whoever lit that fire, they will at least have the sense not to be there when Cato shows up. In fact, maybe that's what they're counting on… that they _won't _be there, and Cato's _gonna_ show up…

I keep quiet, though. For some reason I suddenly feel like I ought to keep this to myself. Cato and his friends rush off across the clearing, so excited they almost step on a couple mines. Cato tells me to stand watch before he gets back- I almost shoot back some sarcastic response. Oh, boy- stand watch till you get back? When have I ever done _that_ before?

About twenty minutes pass. Sitting on my fold-up chair under the tents, I almost doze off when someone darts past me, about ten feet away. Rolling over and going down on one knee, I see… who is it? Some girl I don't know, the one with a great eye for plants and herbs. She's clever and moves fast; someone during training thought to call her Foxface. She's darting over the mines before I can do anything, grabs something and is gone into the woods again. Briefly I try to give chase, but I soon realise it's pointless. I give up and walk back to the clearing.

I'm so busy thinking about rigging the supply pile to blow, making my big getaway today or tomorrow, that I never notice the first arrow streak by and slice a small hole in the bag of apples, set precariously at a high point in the stacks of boxes, crates and backpacks. I do notice the second, and my head whips to its source- I see someone in a dark raincoat or jacket hiding at the edge of the woods- then back to the supply pile again. Just in time to see it explode.

The force of the blast picks me up and tosses me through the air, ten feet at least. The thunderous roars go off, one following another, and in just moments the entire pile of supplies is gone. There's nothing left. Getting up, I even notice the force of the blast destroyed the camp- the fire's gone out and the tents are blown down.

I stagger towards the burning, smouldering heap of rubbish. Failed hopes and shattered dreams, that's all it is now. I was gonna pack supplies for another week- today! What I have hidden is three days at best! Since this started, I had been so smug in criticizing Cato and the Careers for their lack of strategic foresight. I don't feel quite so smug now.

Burning rucksacks, smoking halves of suitcases, shattered chunks of shipping crates, all litter the clearing now. I notice one dark shape moving, just at the edge of the treeline. Suddenly, my heart stops- it's her! The girl from District 12! I feel terror, joy and fury all at the same time. She just did what I'd wanted to do- ruined the Careers for their foolish choice of keeping all their supplies in one place, knowing full well that the mines were too close together. But she did it too soon! And now, unless I get away fast- real fast- I'm gonna foot the bill for it.

Quickly I spring into action. Panic was at my back before- it grips my heart now. Sprinting headlong across the clearing, not knowing what the girl from 12 is doing, not caring, I run inside the Cornucopia, throw down my backpack, and hurriedly throw every scrap of food and medicine I can find inside. Zipping it up, I dash back out- and get five feet before I smack into Cato. He saw me coming and stepped into my path. The spear is knocked from my hands, and I'm hauled to my feet. The bayonet- I have to get the bayonet. But Clove's behind me, pinning my arms with hands of steel. Fear races through me. This is bad. I've got to do something. Anything.

Cato isn't angry. He's not even pissed, or furious. He's so angry I don't even know a word for it. He's grabbing debris and throwing it around, screaming and tearing at his hair. He yells in a perfect image of fury, of raw, unbridled rage. Then he turns to me. "_YOU_! _YOU_ DID THIS!"

I try to argue, but right away I refuse to be timid. I won't cower, won't cry. If I'm going, I'm going like a man. Like a soldier.

"No- I- it was that girl-" I stammer. Suddenly I realize something. I can't move my arms, but I can still turn my head. I could easily have blamed the girl from 12 for everything- after all, it really is all her fault. But instead it's like I'm making up a story.

Why?

Death's staring me in the face. _Why_ am I protecting this girl?

I have just an instant to consider that maybe she really is going to win this thing, after all, and that I'd rather toss my chips to her as I go than to Cato, before Cato draws back his longsword and rams it into my chest.

The flood of pain is instant, blinding everything. My vision whites out for a moment, and I fall backwards to the ground, quickly forgotten. Soon the Careers rush off into the woods again- maybe they think they've caught a glimpse of the one who took their supplies away, destroyed everything they had in the clearing. I lie on the ground in the morning sun, my life slowly draining away.

I'm dying- I know it. Cato must have punctured a lung; I get the sense that inside, I'm drowning in my own blood. I try to get up, and all I do is wiggle my fingers. I try to yell, and can't take in air. I try to cry, and I succeed. That's when I really know I'm finished. That's when I know it for sure.

I don't know how long I'm there, but the pain is beyond bad, past excruciating. I just hope it'll end soon. I manage to get just enough control back in one hand to reach the Keeper's Cross in my pocket. Clumsily, jerkily, more like a puppet on strings held by an inexperienced handler than a boy, I take it out and toss it on the grass. I can't even hold it up to look at it- taking the medal out of my pocket seems to have drained all the strength I had left.

Suddenly, movement. I realize, dimly, that I'm not alone. Footsteps nearby, quick and cautious, probably by someone low to the ground. It's my unit, the boys. They'll never leave one of their own behind. I smile in relief; maybe my dad is with them. He's come to rescue his son, the boy who fought so hard to make Panem safe for everybody. The boy who just wanted to be a good soldier and make his dad proud.

How stupid of me. To tell myself it was right to take the boy from 4's life. I killed him, and told myself, "This is war". At the end of everything, far too late to make any difference, I realise this never was war. This was a game; a stupid, deadly _game_. I took another boy's life and did nothing but waste my own. Telling myself it was _war_.

Somewhere in my mind, as a shape moves into view, I realize. I don't hate the rebels. I hate the Capitol. Wasting all these lives, all these resources, for their own entertainment… the Capitol, who planted most of the mines I dug up. The Capitol, who destroyed District 13… the Capitol, who started the war that, years later, killed my dad.

Someone's standing- no, crouching- over me. "Dad?" I whimper, my voice barely more than a hiss of air. "I'm so sorry, Dad…" I start crying again. I screwed up and now Dad's ashamed of me. Dying's all I've earned.

But it's not him. My dad always wore white when on duty, like all the Peacekeepers. Who's that in the dark raincoat?

It speaks, the shape above me. A girl's voice, saying, "Thank you, for what you did."

What_ I_ did?

Oh, yes. I manage to grab the facts out of the mists and fog now overtaking my mind. The girl from 12, the one who feared being on live TV but never feared fighting for her life. Because, like me, _she'd done it before_. The girl who I didn't point out to Cato.

The girl I allowed to live.

She's over me still, thanking me, saying something else. I flop one hand over near my Keeper's Cross, my eyes pleading. She picks it up. I whimper something, and she turns the cross over.

She smiles a little as her eyes read what's on the back, and the last thing I ever hear is her voice. That beautiful, kind voice, speaking my name.

"Noah."


	7. Chapter 7- The Aftermath

**Chapter VII- Aftermath**

* * *

**A/N: I had originally meant to end the story at Chapter VI, but felt like an epilogue of some kind was appropriate. Here, we see how Noah's background- and somewhat different fate- go on to change more than just the 74th Hunger Games.**

* * *

"Don't kill her; you'll just create a martyr."

Seneca Crane was unmoved; as a matter of fact, he was furious. "Well, it seems like we've already got one. In fact", Crane half-shouted at Haymitch, "it appears we have _two_!"

"I hear these rumours out of District 11 and District 3; this could get away from here-"

Crane cut Abernathy off. "What do you want?" he said, his voice cold and flat. He'd just about had it with these upstarts from the Districts. Never sure where their loyalties really were- and, Crane reminded himself, every damn _one_ of them was just itching to revolt again. To give the war of 74 years ago another shot; except _this_ time, make it right. This time, if there _was_ a revolt, if the riots in 11 and 3 _did_ get out of hand…

Crane didn't much like what he thought of the Capitol's chances.

Haymitch was smart; he was trying to appease Seneca, to calm him down so a tree wouldn't fall out of the sky and kill his star Tribute. Crane listened. For the moment.

"There's a lot of anger out there. I know you know how to handle a mob; you've done it before. If you can't scare them, give them something to root for."

Crane rolled his eyes. This was getting ridiculous. As if the riots in 11 weren't bad enough, the Youth Peacekeepers were in an uproar everywhere, and noplace was worse than Three. And that wasn't all; it was like the whole thing was determined to show how fast bad could give way to worse. Two of the six battalions stationed in 3 at the moment were on strike- incensed by the death of one of their own, they were refusing to raise a hand against the civilian rioters, or so much as leave their barracks. Word was even 3's Head Peacekeeper, while not openly sided with the protesters, was clearly allowing things to go farther than he would if he didn't have sympathy…

But Haymitch had been cooperative all these years. He'd watched as so many of his District's Tributes showed up at the Capitol every year, and died every year. He was trying Seneca Crane's patience, but Crane decided to indulge him just a little longer. "Such as?" he asked.

Haymitch paused; he knew what he wanted to say, but was trying to find the right words. Seneca Crane was pissed off, and whatever he took away from this meeting, he'd be going straight to President Snow with it. That, by itself, told anyone in the know just how serious things had gotten. If Haymitch screwed up now… he didn't want to think what the consequences would be. District 12 would not be getting a second chance.

Finally, he spoke. "Young love."

Crane sighed; as far as District 12 went… maybe something could be done. But Haymitch Abernathy didn't have to deal with the hell being raised over a pair of martyred, wasted Tributes and hundreds, if not thousands of furious people in their home Districts. Finally Crane said he'd consider it, and sent Haymitch away feeling like he'd accomplished something.

But as Crane walked down the hall and headed for the hover-pad that would take him to the President's Mansion, he realised Haymitch's suggestion was about all he had. There was going to be hell to pay over this already. Two Districts were in an uproar, and no matter what the Capitol tried to do all the rest would eventually hear about it. People were not just going to forget this, and especially not in the Capitol, where the top brass would be looking for someone to blame. President Snow was not a man known to forgive.


End file.
